Sunday, January 29, 2012

Out, Out, Damned Magpie

Red Spot II, Wallisy Kandinsky

There is no "red spot" quite comparable to a drop of blood, no "paint" so telling as a bloodstain, whether it be on Gessoed canvas, linen, or bleached cotton. I can't explain all that brought me back to the following poem...I have been obsessing a bit about Orion's movement across the winter sky, the prompt has elements within it that may be interpreted as somehow connected, but, yeah, there's more to it than that.  In any event, the first draft of this was written over twenty years ago about events that occurred a dozen years prior to that, so please don't think I'm about to engage in any sort of blood-letting. I'm just...haunted.

Hunted: A Poem from The Nadir

 By Lemuel Crouse

The sun is cold today--
cold and penetrating--
an icy arrow shot by him
who hunts the frozen winter sky.

Cold, too, are faces
that seem to look intently
but do not see within the silent man
the whimpering child.

Today I am hunted--
haunted, some would say--
but they have not seen the smiling terror
which stalks my dreams.

The sun is cold today--
cold and glowing--
an endless bright night
devoid of blessed, concealing darkness.

                                                         Cold, too, are lungs
                                                         that burn but still
                                                         are not consumed by flames
                                                         from the longed-for final fire.

Today I am running--
avoiding, some would say--
but they have not been served
a draught from the well of hell.

The sun is cold today--
cold and unredemptive--
a puppet knight crucified on the clouds,
unable to save himself, let alone me.

Cold, too, are words
which sound the hollow knell of faith
and smell of bitter ashes
blown down from hope’s cremation.

Today I am alone--
selfish, some would say--
but they have not felt this searing sting,
this thrust from a trusted sword.

(Additional images: stock photo of the Orion constellation; my pic of winter sun setting)

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Thursday, January 26, 2012

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Magpie Senryu

Since Tess has made us ponder, er, sushi...ahem...I've chosen to write senryu, of a sort (Thanks, Heaven, for reminding me of the difference between haiku and senryu! This definitely involves human nature and humor:-):

A present? For me?
A gift-wrapped, bare-assed brunette?
Thanks! You shouldn't have...

Artists love their nudes...
Willowy, supple bodies...
Mouthwat'ring visions.

She takes center stage...
Luscious, exquisite, ready
To be devoured.

Dab of wasabi
Drizzle of soy...senses are
Open for bus'ness!

Succulent tidbit
Ready to pop in my mouth
Sex on a rice ball!

Sorry, that's all I got...this is a Magpie Tale. To read more or to participate, click here!

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Cardinals on Ice

I spent awhile today standing outside and trying not to shiver so I could photograph these beauties! This is the biggest congregation of cardinals we've seen here, with at least three males and four females. Enjoy!
 The ladies seem more social than the gents.
 Still, they, too, can appear...supercilious.
 They apparently had a luncheon date, which they reluctantly shared with a starling
 While the gents looked on...
 Not deigning to descend to the ground and mingle.
 A lovely lady, checking out the eye candy:
 A bright male illustrating perfectly why we call them cardinals.
 Another lady puffs up against the chill
 While these gents keep tabs on each other.
 Such gorgeous, welcome guests to our diner...
Shy and contemplative at times...
But oh the looks they can give us!

Sunday, January 15, 2012

A Wet Magpie

Home Again

You have left me breathless
Like whale song, low, vibrant,
You resonate around me,
Sounding out the depths.

Strident, I press on, always
Splashing, flailing, sloshing about,
Toward some distant shore
As if it must be swiftly reached.

I should know by now, alack,
No sun-bleached beach can match
This liquid calm, this clinging balm,
This home, wherein I now lie.

Eyes still closed, I breathe out,
Relishing in the flow of our tide.
As the swell subsides, I'm sure
There's nowhere else I'd rather be.

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Monday, January 2, 2012

A cold, hard Magpie

Steel Waters
By Lemuel Crouse

Paints I have aplenty,
An ample color palette
Waiting in my wooden kit,
Sufficient to the task at hand,
Wanting, at last, to bask
In light, to sit rough-framed
On some stark mantel,
Art drawing the eye upward
From mounded ash, soot
And cold hearthstone.

Skill, I have some in hand
And heart; soul and eye enough
To see beauty and reflect it...
Like young firs towering
Over a placid pool
On some far western stream,
Or a supple autumn willow
Bowing to touch a quiet pond...
But honor demands response,
And so I set aside the brushes.

On what shall this day's hushed
Work be drawn? Neither wood
Nor Gessoed canvas will hold
The havoc lurking behind
An artist's slighted eye. You choose...
Polished steel, eh? Well, now...
Will this battered easel stand
The strain, or shall my heartstain
Be the beauty your slender mirror
Evermore splendidly reflects?

To hear me read it, click Play:

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